A Dusting of Snow and Cocoa
by Belladonna Lee
Summary: Draco/Harry. The time Draco has with Harry is like stolen moments squeezed into the gaps of their respective schedules—or rather, Harry's busy schedule. And here Draco is, staring off into space in a cafe while waiting for Harry. A vignette about chocolates, apples and snow.
1. Cocoa Snow

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

**A Dusting of Snow and Cocoa**

_Cocoa Snow_

The cobblestone alley was decked out in the colours of yule-tide: ivy green, candlelit gold, holly red, mistletoe berry white. Small piles of snow gathered here and there on the pavement like icing sugar. As the day edged towards evening, the cloudy sky deepened little by little into twilit blue. The old-fashioned streetlights flickered on, and the outdoor lights of the shops followed suit, bathing the alley in a soft warm glow that was punctured at times by the glare of fairy lights.

Sitting at a window table of a certain café, Draco drank his second cup of espresso and gazed off into the distance. The book he was no longer reading lay closed on the table; a bookmark (in the form of a golden ticket) stuck out from the pages like a nail. A strain of jazz piano drifted in and out of the edge of his consciousness like an inexplicable feeling of déjà vu.

Draco watched people passing by outside the window, coming and going. Everyone was muffled up in the winter chill; breaths steamed and hovered in the evening air. Harry had promised to meet him at the café at half past five. The designated time had come and gone, and there was neither hind nor hair of Harry. Harry's guest lecture at Hogwarts should have ended more than an hour ago.

Having grown tired of searching for a messy dark head in the crowd, Draco looked away from the window and surveyed the interior of the café. Painted and furnished in shades of coffee and cream, the café looked as though it was soaked in coffee, from the darkness of espresso to the lightness of latte macchiato. The smell of coffee and cooked food filled the air. A handful of customers scattered about in the café, working, eating, talking, playing with their Muggle gadgets.

Everyone seemed to have something to do and somewhere to be. And here Draco was, staring off into space while waiting for one Harry Potter. He did not profess to be a patient man by nature, but he made an exception for Harry. He had made a lot of exceptions for Harry.

Heaving a sigh, Draco picked up the piece of chocolate that came with the coffee. The packaging could use some work, he thought idly as he unwrapped the blue wax paper. Nestled in the wax paper was a rectangular piece of dark chocolate. He popped the chocolate into his mouth and dropped the wrapping onto the saucer. It was actually quite good, he conceded as the chocolate melted into creamy bitter-sweetness and filled his mouth with its rich aroma.

Draco was reminded of the artisan hot chocolate spoons he bought for Harry some time ago—and by extension, for Teddy. Hot chocolate spoons were the kind of novelty that a child would like, and the present went over well with both godfather and godson. In truth, Draco was not a fan of hot chocolate, but he quite liked tasting it on Harry's lips or stealing a sip or two from Harry's cup.

The memory of a certain night at Harry's house replayed itself in Draco's mind. "You know, I can make you a cup," Harry had said, looking faintly bemused, though he did not seem to mind that Draco was drinking from his cup.

"It tastes better when I'm drinking from your cup,"Draco had joked then, and Harry had squinted at him for a moment or two before leaning forward with a quirk of a smile on his lips and a twinkle in his bright green eyes.

Returning to the present, Draco let out a breath and drank his coffee. The aftertaste of the dark chocolate added a hint of sweetness and mellowness to the flavour of the coffee. He rather fancied something crunchy right now—like a biscuit or a tart. After consulting the menu, he decided against it and leant back in his seat.

A film of haze enveloped the darkened sky like a membrane; snowflakes drifted about in the air and shimmered beneath the streetlight. Even though the heating was more than adequate in the café, Draco could almost feel the chill seeping through the window and into his train of thought.

He pictured the view from the window of Harry's bedroom in wintertime: the frozen expanse, the winter-dead trees, the bare branches rimmed with snow, and the sky fusing seamlessly with the ground. He pictured Harry's bedroom: warm and cosy and not too big, with solid oak furniture and thick rugs on the floor. What he remembered most, however, was Harry sleeping beside him on the bed.

_That and what he's like in bed, _Draco thought wryly as he rested his chin in his hand. In the next beat, his mood turned ever so pensive.

The time he had with Harry was like stolen moments squeezed into the gaps of their respective schedules—or more often than not, Harry's busy schedule. Everyone wanted a piece of Harry and a slice of his time. Harry himself seemed incapable of drawing a line between work and personal life. Sometimes Draco wondered if Harry secretly enjoyed being busy and useful and wanted, if Harry ever considered taking things easy and slow.

Draco checked his silver wristwatch—it was four minutes to six. Two cups of espresso could not last any longer than half an hour. He would wait ten more minutes, and regardless of whether Harry showed up or not, he would order something to eat. Then again, in the past seven months since they started seeing each other, Harry had yet to stand him up. Showing up late, on the other hand, was a regular occurrence.

There were other people before him, Draco knew, people who dated Harry and parted ways with him. Perhaps they had gotten tired of waiting for Harry; perhaps they could not bear being merely third or fourth on Harry's list of priorities; perhaps they discovered that the real Harry could not live up to their ideal. Perhaps someday he too would grow tired of waiting for Harry; perhaps someday Harry would grow tired of him—

This was going nowhere.

With downcast eyes Draco contemplated the cover jacket of the book on the table: a white stretch of nothingness, and a crude charcoal outline of a figure that might have been a man in a bulky winter coat or a snowman. In the midst of white, the figure's heart burnt red like a coal or a wound—or perhaps it was a hole, a heart-shaped hole.

Perhaps he too had a heart-shaped hole, a hole he had half-heartedly thought Harry might be able to fill. The hole remained half-full (or half-empty, depending on the perspective), and it left him hungry for something more. He smiled a self-deprecating smile. As the white noise in the café washed over him, and the people around him went about their business, he could almost admit to himself that he was feeling lonely.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	2. Apple Frost

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

**A Dusting of Snow and Cocoa**

_Apple Frost_

"A Knut for your thoughts?"

Jolted out of his musing, Draco looked up and found a certain someone standing before him: a certain someone with messy black hair, bright green eyes and a sheepish smile. Sprinkles of snow clung to that certain someone's hair and overcoat like ashes and soon melted in the warmth of the café. A canvas bag was slung over that certain someone's shoulder.

"How stingy of you. My thoughts are worth more than a Knut," Draco said in half-jest, and his earlier musing ebbed away and returned to the deep of his consciousness. "The least you can do is pay for my coffee. Two espresso, to be precise."

"Sorry I'm late." With a guilty look on his face Harry took off his tartan scarf and black overcoat, draped them over the back of the chair, and sat down across from Draco. He wore a silver-grey tie over a cobalt-blue shirt; Draco presumed that was not the tie he wore for the lecture.

"Apple juice," Harry said to the waiter who came over to take the order. "Iced is fine. Thanks."

After letting the waiter take away the coffee cup (and declining the offer of a third cup of coffee), Draco studied Harry's face and noted the dark circles around Harry's eyes. "You look tired."

"I was up late preparing for the lecture. Coffee helped, but anyway. Here." Harry produced something from his bag and held it out to Draco as though offering him a rose. However, it was not a rose or even a flower that Harry was holding by the stem. "They are selling these in Honeydukes."

Wrapped in cellophane was a plump toffee apple on a stick, half of it coated in chocolate dark as night, and the other half dyed in such a vivid shade of red that the apple seemed practically dripping blood. As Draco accepted the present from Harry, he wondered if he had ever mentioned toffee apples in Harry's presence. Then again, it was not exactly a secret that he had a liking for apples.

A thought occurred to Draco and brought a smile to his lips. "Do you know the French word for toffee apples?" he asked casually as he twirled the toffee apple this way and that. Bewildered, Harry shook his head. "_Les pommes d'amour._ Apples of love."

Harry blinked once, twice. In the next beat, his face broke into a smile, and the weariness in his countenance melted away like frost at sunrise. "Hmm, let's pretend I knew that and it was my intention all along."

Draco smirked ever so slightly. "Right, I'll pretend you know what you are doing. I'll even let you have a bite later." With a sleight of hand he made the toffee apple seemingly vanish into thin air. "So, is this the reason you are late?"

Harry was about to reply when the waiter returned with Harry's apple juice in a tall glass, and the conversation came to a halt. With a smile Harry thanked the waiter, took a sip of the ice cold apple juice, and let out a breath in appreciation. In the lull between conversations, Draco squinted at Harry's loosely knotted tie and Adam's apple.

Words fell from Harry's lips and filled the space between him and Draco. "The lecture went over time. I know that's no excuse."

Or more likely than not, the students were pestering the famous Harry Potter and wouldn't let him go. Draco did not voice his thought aloud, however. "Well, it is rather lonely sitting here by myself while waiting for you. I was able to do some reading though, so it wasn't so bad."

Harry looked as though he was torn between wanting to believe Draco's words and trying to read the nuances behind those very words. Lost in thought, he stirred the apple juice with the straw; ice cubes clinked in the glass like a premonition.

"Sorry, I'll make it up to you. I can come over and make you dinner, and I'll put on a tuxedo and serve you at the table. Or do you prefer the naked apron?"

In spite of himself, Draco let out a chuckle and found himself in a better mood than before. _What a simple and easily satisfied man you are, _a sardonic voice remarked in his head. "It's tempting, yes, but I'll be tempted to have you for dinner instead of your cooking. Why don't we go with home-cooked dinner and normal clothes?"

"Right. You can tell me what you want to eat later." Harry looked at the book on the table and tried to read the title upside down. "Is it good?"

"Want me to read it to you?" With that Draco turned the book around so that Harry could see the title: _The Snow Lover_. "It features a man made of snow, his love affairs with various humans, a fair bit of sex, and a snowman killer. It would make for a good bedtime story."

Amusement danced within those catlike green eyes of Harry's. "Sounds like your kind of bedtime stories. Better do that when Teddy isn't staying over."

"Speaking of bedtime..." Draco fished into the pocket of his coat, took out a small bottle, and gave it to Harry. "It'll help you sleep better. Pour two or three drops on your pillow before going to bed. I'd already tested it myself, and it worked for me. But don't drink it. You'll be sick."

Something akin to ruefulness passed like a shadow over Harry's visage, and in the next moment it was gone. With much care Harry stowed the bottle away in his bag. "Thank you. I'll try it, well, maybe not tonight."

"Because you'd have to stay awake while I read to you?" Draco joked.

"I don't mind staying up late to hear you read."

Taken aback, Draco peered at Harry's smiling face for several beats and looked away, his words all but lost in the dark. His gaze fell upon Harry's glass of apple juice. In the warm air of the café, the glass misted over as if touched by frost. Condensation glided down the glass and onto the coaster. Reaching out, Draco absent-mindedly drew a heart on the glass, a heart that dripped and was cold as ice.

"You know," Draco muttered, his eyes beholding the man who had kept him waiting, the man he did not want to let go of—not now, not yet, perhaps not ever. "I can always read to you in the morning."

* * *

_Finis._

A/N: The story is inspired by the collaborations between singer-songwriters Ringo Sheena and Hikaru Utada: "Nijikan Dake no Vacance" (written and composed by Utada) and "Roman to Soroban" (written and composed by Sheena). Thank you for reading.


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